‘One thing’s for sure,’ Klein had once said during one of their discussions.
‘What’s that?’ she’d asked him.
Klein had walked to the door of the office and stared for a moment down the corridor to the ward. ‘No one’s stitching any quilts for these guys.’
Devlin had said, ‘What about us, Klein?’
Klein had grunted, said, ‘I’m just doin’ my time the easiest way I can.’
She hadn’t believed him. She believed that the work mattered as much to him as it did to her. More so. Much more. But Klein insisted on his cynical façade and the more she tried to penetrate it the more he insisted that that was all he was about.
Devlin’s thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. Coley stuck his head in and regarded her with baleful yellow eyes.
‘Hi, Coley,’ said Devlin.
Coley gave her a ponderous nod. ‘Doctah Devlin. We wasn’t expecting you today.’
‘I know. I wanted to surprise you.’
‘Well, shit,’ said Coley. ‘I’s all surprised to Hell.’
Devlin never knew whether she should be irritated or amused by the Uncle Tom act Coley put on for her, his Doctor this and Doctor that when he knew she wanted him to call her by her name. Now she wanted to smile. Instead she said, ‘Fuck you, Coley.’
‘Yessum, Doctah.’
‘How are the men?’ she asked.
‘In status quo,’ he said. ‘That is, half of ’em are dying and the other half ain’t.’
‘And where’s Klein?’ she said.
‘He over to see the warden,’ said Coley. ‘Dunno when he be back.’
‘Why’s he seeing Hobbes?’
‘To find out if the board have approved his parole.’
‘He had a parole hearing?’
Devlin tried to sound cool but inside, to her surprise, she was hurt that Klein hadn’t told her. In fact she was furious. It was absurd. Coley watched her with the hooded yellow eyes that always made her feel like the alien she was. He nodded.
‘Yeah. Last week.’ He paused, studied her. He asked, ‘You think you had a right to know ’bout it, huh?’
Devlin shrugged it off and turned away. ‘It would’ve been nice to root for him, but it’s not really any of my business.’
Coley shook his head. ‘Didn’t tell me either till after he’d seen ’em, and as well he didn’t. I’d’ve known ’bout it I would’ve fucked him up for sure.’
Devlin turned back and stared at him. ‘You’d have stopped him getting paroled?’
‘I’d sure as Hell’ve tried.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Coley held her gaze. ‘You think I want to run this place on my lonesome? You think I can? Do you wanna come and help me when he’s gone?’
‘I don’t believe you’d do that to him.’
‘You still don’t see the way of things in here, do you, Doctah Devlin? All your questionnaires and fancy bullshit. You don’t see a goddamn thing. You think all this is real, realer than anything you know, hard core real. But you wrong. It’s a game. Ain’t no reality here at all. You live in the reality you die. You join the game you got a chance. And your man he’s learned to play it good. You try to play it with him, he’ll take you down. You claim to be a gamblin’ lady. You should understand.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Devlin.
‘I seen the way you look at him,’ said Coley.
Devlin squirmed inside. Suddenly her skull felt transparent, as if Coley could see all the secret pictures in her head. It was all she could do to hold Coley’s gaze.
Coley said, ‘In here the only duty a man has is to his self. Don’t be looking for something that ain’t his to give.’
Devlin nodded. She felt foolish, inarticulate. Coley was right. She swallowed. ‘Will he get paroled?’
Coley blinked slowly, nodded. ‘Pea Vine Special callin’ all aboard. Like I say, he’s a player.’
‘Is that all?’ said Devlin. ‘I mean, what about all this?’
Coley looked at her, puzzled. ‘All what, Doctah?’
‘The work he’s done for the men, with you.’
‘You think Klein rather be workin’ a drill press? Makin’ belt buckles? This just another play in the game.’
‘I don’t believe that.’ She felt a waver in her voice.
Coley shrugged. ‘You believe what you have to, same as the rest of us.’ He turned towards the door. ‘You wanna wait here for him, he be back soon.’
‘Coley?’
Coley stuck his head back inside the room.
‘I’ve got something to show you later. It’s important,’ she said.
Coley arched one eyebrow. ‘Call me when you need me. I ain’t going nowhere.’ He paused. ‘I’ll tell you somethin’ though, case you don’t already know.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Your boy Klein look real pretty when he’s shucked down.’
Devlin couldn’t tell if she was blushing or not. ‘What?’
‘Without his shirt on,’ said Coley. ‘Big pecker, too, fo’ a white boy. But he won’t let Ole Frogman get close. Maybe you can offer a little somethin’ extra I ain’t got.’
This time she felt her face burning. Coley snorted with lewd laughter.
‘Fuck you, Coley,’ said Devlin.
Coley grinned. ‘Don’t pay me no nevermind, Doctah Devlin.’
Against her will Devlin found herself grinning back.
‘Good luck in the game tonight,’ said Coley.
Devlin had a bet riding on the Lakers to beat the Knicks by six points. As far as she could tell gambling was the only thing about her that Coley respected. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
Coley disappeared and the door closed behind him. Devlin sat down on the edge of the table. What Coley had told her sank in: Ray Klein might soon be released. Her guts tightened. Beneath the mountain of intellect and abstraction stuffed inside her head she knew her guts didn’t lie. The possibility of Klein’s freedom bore down on her, and with it all that Coley had said about the reality and the game. Klein free was a different reality. Wanting him – and the ache inside her told her she did – was a different game, and one at which Devlin felt less than expert. Devlin opened her briefcase and took out a pack of Winston Lights. She lit up, inhaled, and felt a little better as her nicotine levels rose. There was no sense in bullshitting herself. She didn’t want Klein to vanish from her life. The question was: how to keep him there? She had one or two ideas about that one. But there was another question too: why the fuck would Klein be interested in someone like her? Devlin took another drag on her Winston. That was a question to which she didn’t yet have an answer, but she was going to try to find out.
EIGHT
RAY KLEIN SAT on a wooden bench on the ground floor of the admin tower and wondered if the big black patches of sweat on his denim shirt would piss off the warden. He’d sprinted the four hundred metres from the infirmary to get here on time and of course he’d been sitting now for twenty minutes with the sweat from the run fucking up his shirt. Maybe Hobbes would figure he was sweating from nervous tension. That would be bad. If Klein read Hobbes correctly the warden didn’t like grovellers. Well, fuck him. It was out of Klein’s hands anyway. A line from an old song ran unbidden through his head.
When I was just a little boy,
I asked my mother, ‘What will I be?
Will I be handsome? Will I be rich?’
Here’s what she said to me . . .
Klein found himself shaking inwardly with silent laughter. The voice in his head belonged to Doris Day. It was perfection. He was sitting in the asshole of creation listening to a thirty-year-old Doris Day record stored from God knew where inside his skull. Will I be handsome? Will I be rich? He heard Doris take in a great breath and belt out: ‘Que Sera Sera! Whatever will be will be!’ For its day pretty subversive stuff, some kind of neo-stoicism maybe. Or even neo-Marxism. He wondered how many guys in their time had jerked off whi
lst thinking about Doris Day. Millions, probably. Klein considered trying it for himself sometime. His sexual fantasy life needed a new angle. Doris Day. Klein was mildly shocked to find himself developing a hard-on.
‘What the fuck’s so funny, Klein?’
With a jolt Klein straightened his face and looked up. Captain Cletus, lugubrious as ever, stood in the waiting-room doorway. At this late date Klein’s self-esteem did not depend on his daring to piss off Cletus. Because Cletus was widely feared and hated he was an understandably, if excessively, paranoid character. He tended to interpret any laughter as being at his expense. Benson from A had once spent a week in seg for using the phrase ‘. . . as wide as the crack in Cletus’s ass’. Klein could think of no better way of reassuring the Captain than to explain the true cause of his mirth. He stood up to attention.
‘I was thinking about Doris Day, Captain sir,’ said Klein.
Cletus walked over and stared at Klein from a distance of six inches for what seemed like a long time.
Finally, Cletus said, ‘Doris Day?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Klein.
Cletus continued his stare.
‘I was thinking, “Whatever will be will be”, sir,’ said Klein. ‘You know, que sera sera.’
‘Que sera sera,’ said Cletus.
‘Yes, sir. Whatever will be will be, you know.’
‘You are too smart a son of a bitch for your own good, aren’t you, Klein?’
‘I hope I am not, sir,’ said Klein.
For the first time in three years Klein watched a smile appear on Cletus’s face.
‘You’re waiting to see the Warden.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cletus stared at him for another lengthy moment.
‘Come with me,’ said Cletus.
Klein, sweating harder than ever, followed Cletus up the stairs of the tower. As he watched the Captain’s huge ass mounting the steps ahead of him Klein cursed himself for letting his control slip and Doris Day for infiltrating her voice so stealthily into his unconscious. At the top of the fourth set of steps Cletus stopped at one end of a short wood-panelled corridor. At the other end was the door to Hobbes’s office. Cletus turned to Klein.
‘Sing,’ said Cletus.
Klein looked from Cletus to the door of Hobbes’s office and back again. He swallowed. ‘Sir?’
‘Que sera sera,’ said Cletus. ‘Sing it.’
‘I don’t remember the words,’ said Klein.
‘I don’t know what the parole board has decided to do with your sorry ass,’ said Cletus, ‘but until you walk out them gates it’s still mine. I put you on punishment, like, right now, the board will have to reconsider its decision.’
You cocksucker, thought Klein. He did not look at Cletus for fear of the thought showing in his eyes. He coughed.
‘Listen,’ said Klein, ‘if I gave the impression of being a smart son of a bitch, it was not my intention to do so and I apologise to the Captain unreservedly and without let or hindrance.’
‘Sing,’ said Cletus.
This time Klein let him have the cocksucker stare. Again, Cletus smiled. Klein wondered if Cletus had smiled that way when he was working Wilson over in seg. He took a deep breath.
‘Loud,’ said Cletus. ‘So I can hear you all the way to the bottom of the stairs.’
Klein let the breath out. ‘I’ve got to admit,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think you had the imagination.’
Cletus put his lips close to Klein’s ear. ‘When I was a kid I used to jerk off watching Doris Day movies.’
Klein looked at him. ‘You’re right,’ said Klein. ‘I’m too smart a son of a bitch for my own good.’
Cletus nodded. ‘I still wanna hear that song.’
Then fuck you, thought Klein, and launched straight into it.
‘When I was just a little boy,
‘I asked my mother, What will I be?’
As Cletus disappeared, laughing, down the stairs, Klein continued singing.
‘Will I be handsome? Will I be rich?
‘Here’s what she said to me . . .’
In the small corridor his voice echoed hugely. Damned, too, if it didn’t sound half bad. Klein inhaled deeply and gave the chorus his best shot.
‘Que sera sera!
‘Whatever will be will be . . . ’
As Klein took in another deep gulp of air the door of Hobbes’s office erupted open. Klein’s mouth snapped shut. Hobbes stared at him from the doorway: massive balding cranium, febrile eyes under heavy brows. If Klein had ever felt more of an asshole he couldn’t remember when. An excruciating silence seemed like his only option.
‘Klein?’
Klein’s lungs were overfilled and he felt unable to blurt out all the air. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘Yes, sir.’ He held onto the rest of the air.
Hobbes considered him with mild astonishment, as if Klein’s bizarre performance had just barely penetrated his consciousness and distracted him briefly from matters of more profound import. In his few dealings with him Klein had found the warden an enigma. Something in his bearing, his distance, his speech patterns, gave Hobbes a quality of not being of this world, as if he’d been catapulted into the present from some other time long past. Like the prison itself: designed for the nineteenth century, now floundering in the last days of the twentieth. In all modesty, or maybe in all stupidity, Klein rarely found himself in the presence of an intelligence he felt to be larger, deeper, more impenetrable than his own. Hobbes evoked such a sense; a sense of the unfathomable. If, now, Hobbes could not fathom Klein, it did not seem to perturb him overmuch.
Hobbes said, ‘Get in here.’ He disappeared from view.
Klein let out the breath that was threatening to pop the blood vessels in his face. He hauled his dignity back together and strode down the corridor into the office.
The office spanned the width of the tower on a north-south axis and was ascetically furnished: a bookcase, an old oak desk covered by a sheet of glass, three chairs. A fan with wooden blades turned in the ceiling above the desk. On the wall was a Ph.D. certificate from Cornell. Directly facing the door on a wooden plinth was a bronze bust of Jeremy Bentham. Juliette Devlin had told Klein that the bust was of Bentham, otherwise he would have taken him for a Confederate general or something. Except that Hobbes, like Klein, was a Yankee. Klein closed the door behind him and stood to attention, staring at the glazed bronze orbs of Bentham’s eyes. At that moment he imagined that his own eyes looked somewhat similar.
Hobbes’s voice boomed across the room: ‘The last mind of any real stature to devote itself to the problem of incarceration.’
Klein felt a fleeting vertigo. What was Hobbes talking about? Surely not Doris Day. Klein looked at him and said, ‘Excuse me, sir?’
Hobbes inclined his head towards the bronze bust. ‘Bentham.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Klein’s wits suddenly fell back into place. He performed a rapid calculation and added. ‘Panopticism.’
Hobbes’s thick brows rose half an inch. ‘You surprise me. Come and sit down.’
Hobbes indicated the chair facing him and Klein walked over. Under the sheet of glass on the desk was an old architectural blueprint, in plan, of the prison and its walls. The south window at Hobbes’s back threw his face into shadow. No doubt the effect was deliberate. As Klein sat down he saw a green cardboard folder on the desk with his own name and number printed on the front.
‘So what does the concept of panopticism mean to you?’ said Hobbes.
Klein looked up from the folder that contained his fate. He felt nineteen years old again, trying to remember the course of the phrenic nerve for the anatomy professor. ‘Bentham was preoccupied with the idea that if you watched someone all the time, or at least got them to believe that they were being watched all the time, it would change their personality for the better. Force them to re-examine their souls. Something like that.’
‘Something like that,’ said Hobbes. ‘What do you think of this th
eory?’
‘I guess it depends who’s doing the watching and who’s being watched,’ said Klein.
Hobbes nodded. ‘How true.’ He seemed pleased. ‘Not all men are able to profit from the scrutiny of the panoptic machine. They cannot endure its light. Even less can they endure the light of self-knowledge.’
‘Forcing people towards self-knowledge can be a dangerous business,’ said Klein.
‘How so?’ asked Hobbes.
Klein didn’t want to provoke Hobbes. Neither did he want to appear to be kissing his ass, if only because Hobbes wasn’t the type to appreciate it, but what the hell. His fate was already decided. If Hobbes could tolerate Doris Day he wasn’t going to be blown away by a little Plato.
‘You remember the subterranean cavern in Plato’s Republic? The dream of Socrates?’
Hobbes leaned forward. ‘The Seventh Book,’ said Hobbes. His brow was smoothed taut with excitement.
He seemed to be holding his breath. ‘Make your point.’
Klein swallowed. ‘In the cavern men are chained, buried far away from the light of the sun. Their heads are fixed to stop them from seeing anything but their own shadows cast upon the wall by the flames of a fire. When challenged the chained men violently defend their own dark ignorance. And Socrates asks: if they could seize hold of the man who tried to liberate them and lead them up into the light, would they not then kill him?’
Hobbes let out his breath, almost in a sigh. ‘Would you kill him?’ he said.
Klein looked at Hobbes for a long time. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You look at the sun for too long you go blind.’
‘And yet no one saw farther than the blind seer Tiresias. There are some truths that can only be known in darkness.’
‘Yes, sir. Maybe that’s the problem with your panoptic machine.’
Hobbes raised an eyebrow. ‘My machine?’
Klein didn’t answer.
‘You’re a brave man, Klein.’